Lose Your Soul to a Little More Fire
by redphlox
Summary: There is something about Soul's sleep guardian Maka that is more divine than human, and he falls for her a little bit more every time they meet up in his dreams. Yet, when the most important person in his life goes missing, she promises to venture hand-in-hand with him into the dream realm to find answers - and he can't help but wonder as they try to change fate, at what cost? SoMa
1. One Day

this is my entry for Reverb 2016 on Tumblr - a poet anderson au! please take a moment to look at the accompanying art by whos-that-foxi-lady. links where her art can be found are listed on my ffn profile. thanks so much for reading this fic, i hope you enjoy!

 _Warnings_ : depression, sleep terrors, body horror, minor character death, blood, Soul pinning for Maka, Soul suffering, language.

 _x_

 _(One Day)_

x

One day he hopes to fall asleep and never wake up.

He feels so alone that not even sleep serves as a refuge anymore - it makes sense that he will eventually cease to exist. A little demon dances behind his eyelids whenever he seeks slumber, its lanky limbs twitching to a jerky rhythm, teeth chattering like chainsaws as the world unfolds around him. This time, the ground disintegrates faster than usual. He tumbles deeper into black nothingness until the world appears again in a burst of color and brightness, and he lands gently on his expensive dress-shoe clad feet.

Every time this happens, he almost misses being lost. There is comfort in darkness. But lately, when she beckons him into this Dream World, he's sorry to wake up - for different reasons; she has a cheery laugh that fills his soul with goodness. He would choose to never wake up if he could be guaranteed unlimited time with Maka.

"Sorry you didn't get a spot in the orchestra," she immediately says when he learns to breathe again. He can't tell if he's wheezing because of the fall or because of her excitement at seeing him. Above them, the sky is a pure shade of aqua and the grass they stand on is green, but not as green as her eyes.

It's a glorious summer's day. Just him, Maka, serene stillness, and nothing but space. It's easy to believe he'll be okay when the sun warms his skin, the horizon stretching on forever.

Or maybe hope blossoms because of her radiant presence. There is something about her that is more divine than human.

His tongue feels like awkward, sunburnt leather. "What?"

"Oh," she says, a sympathetic look softening her bright face. "I guess you wouldn't know yet. You're asleep. Forget I mentioned it."

"Fuckin' _figures,"_ he sighs and slumps over once he registers what she's referring to, hands automatically retreating into his pockets. Digging the tip of his shoe into the earth doesn't ease the mounting sense of inadequacy, but at least it distracts him. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Maka. "This is the second year in a row I haven't made the symphony."

"It's okay! You tried your best. And… you didn't really want a spot in the orchestra, did you?" Maka says this with a fretful frown. She knows him better than she can recite the sacred stanzas of her favorite poems. An ethereal glow colors her faintly freckled cheeks when she opens a book. Like she's at home. This is why a knee-melting shiver moves down his spine every time she reads him, slow like honey, warm as load of freshly dried laundry. She doesn't see _through_ him, she sees _into_ him, seemingly knows most of his veiled truths, his worst nightmares, and yet hasn't abandoned him.

Doubts don't discriminate, though, so they mutter to him that Maka's just a dream, a wish, a manifestation of his craving for attention and unconditional love. She's not real. The fact that they haven't touched at all only intensifies what could devastate him - that she's nothing more than a guardian angel he has imagined.

Loneliness does things to a person.

He shrugs lazily, blinking away such thoughts. Can she read his mind, too? Treading with caution seems like a more appropriate approach, so he hits the 'repress' button in his mind that's been pressed too many times. "I guess I don't care about being in the orchestra as much as my parents do," he allows, gnawing on his lower lip as she studies him. The blackness of her pupils is hypnotizing.

When she tilts her head, the sun catches her wheat colored hair and bathes it in gold. Even the sunlight has an otherworldly feel to it, like it's a memory, like he's thinking back to a sunny day when Wes pulled him around in the red wagon in their backyard, to a time when Soul was a little less messed up, not so constantly lost.

Maka's brows furrow together and she scrunches her chin, the way she does when she thinks too much. "Are you going to be okay when you wake up?"

He's not one to tell a lie. "I don't know."

She doesn't rush forward to envelope him in a bear hug. Doing so would not cause much awkwardness for him because he needs the comfort _so badly_ , almost as desperately as he needs a haircut and to catch up on years of lost happiness. But she doesn't take a step forward. With a ghostly smile painted on her face, she stands there, shoulders back and chin held high, her hands clasped behind her back. She's waiting for him. She has never specifically _told_ him what to do, which is what guardians are supposed to behave, he thinks - not bark out orders, but provide support.

He doesn't want a guardian angel; he wants her to be real. So he doesn't initiate touch. He can pretend she's made of flesh and bones and a steadily beating heart if he doesn't prove that she's a manifestation of his dreams. "Stay here with me?"

He always asks, and she has yet to decline. He doesn't think she'll ever say no. Guilt makes him cold with regret - is she trapped in his dream, fated to hear him complain?

Maybe it's because she's proving something to herself, too. Maybe it's because she saw the skepticism in his eyes, cloudy and mistrusting. She holds out a black gloved hand to him. "Want to dance with me?"

He gulps. "I hate dancing."

"You're good at it," is all she says. It's unclear how she knows, but it makes sense that she does. She knows things about him that even he doesn't.

He just stares at her, silently begging her not to keep insisting.

But she understands him too well. "It's okay, okay? I promise."

Belief is fear being flushed out of his body through a long, long sigh. His pulse slows to a content beat. There is no one around for miles - or anywhere? - and he thinks it would be fun to spin and twirl her around, maybe dip her. She's wearing that black ball gown, after all, and he's strapped into his best tuxedo.

Suddenly, though the idea just crept into their minds, it fits.

It's what they're _supposed_ to be doing when they meet up in dreams like this. Sharing their souls as they sit in the grass with their shoes off and bask in the sunlight _is_ special, of course, but this is what they were supposed to do: dance.

And that means touching.

Bottle green eyes beckon him. His legs are lighter than a feather as he inches forward. Electricity buzzes in the air. He isn't sure where to look - at her hand, her smile, or her bangs lifting when a gust of wind blows through?

His first thought is that it's never been anything but still. Not a blade of grass has ever moved while they've been in the Dream World. Time slows when they're here; it may be the sedative effects of having barely escaped the eerie demon that chases him through hellish landscapes until she rescues him, ripping the ground out from beneath him.

But today, as he reaches out shyly to test if he can feel the heat of her skin through her gloves' silky fabric, the world breaks.

It's not catastrophic - at first.

He's entranced by her hair blowing with the breeze, by the darkness in her eyes that seems to burn brighter the slower he moves. Has she been as hungry to make contact as he has? The wind intensifies to gusts as he reaches for her, fingertips tingling. It ruffles through his hair, and he imagines his wispy, dandelion-like strands could be mistaken for a white towel whipping through the air, his neat part undone. Maka only has eyes for him, though.

A train-like whistle screeches in the distance. From his periphery, he can easily tell that the darkening sky is an ominous sign, but he's nothing if not excellent at ignoring danger. It's not that he's a daredevil; it's that he simply can't be bothered to keep himself alive.

"It's time to say goodbye," she yells right before his eardrums burst and the grass is yanked out of the ground by tornadic winds. She shields her eyes and forehead with her arm, not looking away from him.

He reaches out for her, the small space between them a bittersweet gift. "We'll see each other again, right?" If he sounds desperate, he doesn't care. It's safe to wear his heart on his sleeve around Maka.

Her grin is the only source of light in the darkening winds tearing them apart. He can't hear her, but he's learned to read her, too. She mouths, "Of course!"

Before he can breathe, the world swallows him.

X

His name is Soul Evans and he was born into money, musical genius, and crippling social anxiety.

The first two are sheer luck, and the last a curse. He played three instruments before he could walk, he's been told - the piano, the triangle, and drums (pots and pans). It's not an impressive resume compared to Wes, who was born holding a violin. No matter how much effort Soul invests into practicing or avoiding his private lessons teacher, his skills remain stagnant. To have zero talent would have been much less agonizing than bordering between mediocre and genius.

He's average.

It's heartbreaking.

X

Sometimes Soul blacks out. He likes it. It's like taking a break from life.

X

"... Awake?"

Soul peeks out into the darkness of the room, squinting at the light that seeps underneath the door. He's struggling to catch his breath, sure that he's lived through a storm during his sleep despite his room being perfectly still. The dream felt _that_ real.

His brother Wes comes to his rescue when Maka can't. "Soul, are you awake?"

Soul isn't one to tell a lie. "I think," he finds his voice to mutter, wiggling his toes in an effort to prove his existence. A hand to his hair confirms that it's messy, but that could be attributed to tossing and turning during his sleep. His thrashing has summoned a worried parent or both in the past, his mother frantically shaking his shoulder while his father orders Wes to phone the ambulance. Thank goodness Wes is level-headed in daunting situations. If it weren't for him, Soul would be a frequent visitor in the emergency room, a note in his medical chart warning about hypochondriac, overbearing parents.

While Soul is appreciative that Wes is by himself at the present moment, he can't help but wonder where his parents are - sometimes his moments of suffering are the only guaranteed way to spend time with them.

Wes knocks again. "Can I come in?"

Soul clears his throat. His cheek is stuck to his egyptian cotton pillowcase, drool pooled near his mouth. "I guess…"

His brother stands tall, as if he's being held up by an invisible string that's attached to the top of his head, and he never frowns or scoffs. Rolling his eyes isn't polite, and neither is muttering, "whatever" at constructive criticism. Wes Evans is a gentleman. Perfect. When the thought that Wes hogged all of the good genes infiltrates his mind, Soul takes a deep, deep breath and imagines releasing it out of his body. He doesn't need that kind of negativity in this life.

"I heard you screaming," Wes says, never one to beat around the bush. "You having those nightmares again?"

"Never stopped having them," Soul replies, giving up on propping himself on an elbow and instead sinking deeper into his bed. It might be gruesome, but his bed is more of a grave than a sanctuary because he wastes more time between the covers than actually resting. He's always suffering from exhaustion, the kind that settles in his muscles and inhibits them from working properly.

"Oh." Leaving the door ajar, Wes walks into the room, pocketing his hands. It must be an I'm-feeling-awkward Evans move, except when Wes does it, he doesn't tilt his chin down in shame, hiding his emotions. "Sorry… Really, I'm sorry I was so out of touch while I was in grad school. Guess that makes me a crappy brother."

"S'kay," Soul reassures and means it fully. No almost thirty-year-old should put his life on hold to babysit his younger brother. "You're not a bad brother."

By the way Wes shifts his weight between his feet, Soul can tell that Wes doesn't accept this. Soul readies himself to fight for his brother's honor, but all his gut and glory disperses when a swollen, red head peeks into the room from behind the door. Its lopsided eyes scan its surroundings before lingering on Soul, whose blood freezes over like the layer of ice over a lake.

It's the imp from his dreams.

A scream clogs Soul's throat.

Wes's eyebrows knit together the same way Maka's did earlier.

 _Maka._

How could she have slipped Soul's mind? They had never parted ways like that before, the same way he's never seen the demon slinking along on its bowed legs. Surely there is a correlation. As the imp bares its sharp, shark-like, yellow teeth at him, Soul can't bring himself to worry about anything but Maka. In the background, he worries that those teeth could easily sink into his flesh and probably through bone - it looks hungry, it looks hungry, it looks hungry - but he's never cared too much about himself in the first place.

Maybe he's learned some self love, because as the imp shuffles along toward him, right foot dragging on his mother's meticulously polished hardwood floors, Soul scans his surroundings for a weapon to use for protection. The imp's fingers wiggle excitedly, long nails glinting. Soul is vaguely aware that Wes has taken up a mantra that consists of, "Are you okay? Tell me what's wrong!" in a panicked cry.

Soul wants to cry, too, but his tear ducts dried up when he was eight, when he wasn't moved into the Gifted and Talented class. Wes had been in the Gifted and Talented class, and Soul had wanted to be just like his older brother.

"SOUL!"

He blinks. The imp is gone, gone, gone with a _poof!_ "Huh?"

Wes is sitting beside him. Soul hates himself for making his brother worry. "What's wrong?"

Everything. "Nothing."

X

Wes, though Soul doesn't beg him to, camps out on Soul's floor that night. It would have made more sense for them to relocate to Wes's room, but Soul doesn't want to risk running into the demon in the hallway, so they stay. It's like Soul is five again and Wes is seventeen and they're sleeping in the same room because Soul was shaken up from a nightmare. Soul doesn't _want_ to be a little kid again, doesn't want to feel as useless, talentless, and forgotten as he did when he was seven and his averageness really sunk in, but he's glad to have his brother back.

He missed Wes so much.

X

Soul doesn't dream about Maka for two weeks.

He misses her smile most of all.

Maka Albarn has a very pretty smile.

If Soul were to ever see her walk into his bedroom like the imp did, he would probably drop to his knees and worship her.

Well - not literally. But in his mind and stuff. There have been stranger things than meeting someone in his dreams. A burning in his bones convinces him that she's more than a pigtailed delusion. She talks about her mama the doctor and her papa the constable and her little garden of succulents. Soul isn't that creative - how could he have made these small details up?

When they first crossed paths, he had been running through a dark maze in his nightmares that seemed to be alive, and she had stuck her hand out to pull him into the brush. He had screamed, and she had gently covered his mouth, and he had been fascinated by green eyes that glowed like embers. It had seemed like he had been lost for years, so it wasn't fair that she managed to find an escape so effortlessly.

Has she abandoned him, too?

He wakes to sleep again, to see her.

X

Soul sleeps a lot. He was always a little too quiet and slept too much, even when he was six months old.

There is comfort in not existing.

Not like he's living while he's awake, anyway. The limelight favors him. He's a waste of life, just being _average_ : getting average grades and not excelling in anything, not failing enough. What was that saying - 'a jack of all trades, a master of none'? Irony is a cruel mistress, though, because the dark nights in which he slumbers, the ones that seem like a pause, a relief, turn into hell. And it's impossible to run from the kind of damnation that exists trapped in his skull.

What's more worrying than dreams of his skin peeling off, his teeth morphing into lava and burning holes in his mouth, and a menacing imp trailing behind him like a second shadow, is that the lack of sleep endangers him. After Soul fell asleep at the wheel, his rightfully anxious mother revoked his privilege to a learner's permit, and then there existed no reason to stay awake. Learning to drive was his only motive to not sleep his life away.

And now that he has flunked calculus for the year, the urge to sleep and never wake up feels like the only solution.

Honestly, it's incredible _how_ _much shit_ he gets from his parents. Not making the snotty, prestigious city symphony had earned him a lecture about 'applying himself', 'networking,' and 'dedicating his soul to music, like Wes.' Some of it may have been warranted - practicing is out of the question when he's busy brooding, which is ninety-nine percent of the time. He can't apply himself when he's an emotional wreck. Although the talk had left Soul feeling dirtier than a soiled diaper, he swallowed the words "I'm not Wes," nodded as if he were keenly listening, and went to bed.

Now with this academic failure under his belt, he might as well walk the plank into a sea full of flesh-eating piranhas. Disappointing his parents shouldn't matter because he's technically always been a failure, but dread still conquers his senses and makes him feel like his time is limited.

Instead of waiting for his school counselor, teacher, _whoever,_ to email his parents about his calculus grade and how it will delay his graduation for a year, Soul decides to drop the bomb during dinner.

Like most tragedies, it's not hauntingly loud. The quieter moments sear themselves into his memory with more vigor. The absence of sound is what defines a true catastrophe.

"So," Soul says, putting his spoon down. It clanks against the fancy china. Immediately, his mother frowns. He can't tell if it's because talking during meals isn't tolerated, or if she's worried about damage to the intricate blue design on the bowl. "I flunked calculus."

Eye contact with Wes would hurt too much right now, so he ignores his older brother's horrified gasp and subsequent attempts to get his attention. Somehow, even though Wes has never expressed disappointment in any of Soul's actions, something tells him there is a first time for everything. Not coming to his brother first with this information is most likely the reason for the frown Soul can see in his periphery.

"I'm disappointed in you," his mother says. Soul regrets being born. He doesn't fit into his mother's life. Flawless ringlets frame her face, and ever since he could remember, he's never seen her without a pearl necklace or with the slightest hint of wrinkles in her clothing. Soul figures that he embodies everything awful that could have happened to her - a huge, ugly stain of flesh.

"Sorry," he whispers, lips barely moving. His voice box doesn't seem to function anymore.

His mother sighs. "We can talk about it later when your father is home. No use wasting a good meal," is all she says, daintily picking up her spoon.

The succinct dismissal adds to the tremendous lump building up in his throat. "Can I be excused?"

"I suppose," his mother says, not looking at him.

X

He runs away after dinner.

It's not as dramatic as he had fantasized each time he had screwed up beyond belief. Soul isn't meticulous, but that hasn't stopped him from physically designating a duffel bag as his Emergency Escape Kit. In it, he had packed away his favorite jeans, two t-shirts, boxers, toothpaste, floss, soap - everything necessary except his black grand piano, which he loves second best only to dreaming about Maka.

Obviously, everything he loves turns to shit. He loved his piano and tried very hard to impress his family, but fear held him back, so his piano was never used for anything aside from missing sharps and banging his forehead against its ivory keys. And he loved Maka too, in the purest sense of the word, in the way he loves to nap in the middle of a sunny day, in the way he likes sunrises and ice cream. It's an unhurried variety of love, one that is part of him just as his bone marrow and kidneys are.

Things change, he supposes. Or maybe they don't. He's never been allowed to have nice things. It's like he's cursed. He can't take his piano with him and he can't take Maka with him.

Loneliness does things to a person.

Soul is Soul. Excuses like "I must have been switched at birth" used to comfort him. Now, not even that self-deprecating humor grants him peace.

He only stops by his second story room to scoop up his Emergency Escape Kit, pocket his wallet, discard his cell phone (his parents have a special tracking device on it), and to exchange his dress shoes for sneakers. The jump from his window to the floor isn't as frightening since he had practiced. As soon as he hits the ground, he's running, running - running to where, he's not sure.

X

"You look like such a snob," Blake snorts as soon as he spots Soul weaving through the crowd of fellow teenagers bent on spending their allowance on soft drinks and short-lived entertainment. Soul knows Blake is never purposefully cruel, but Soul is fragile, so fragile. "You gonna start wearing a tux everywhere you go?"

"Fuck you," Soul spits. It's safe to let his pent-up anger out on easy-going, not-a-care-in-the-world Blake Barrett. Nothing gets to him. He's mastered the art of remaining unfazed, whereas Soul holds on to everything - even the toxic things that kill - like a lifeline. It was a mistake to come here - now he's even more pissed.

Soul clenches his jaw, Blake laughs, and their friend Kilik glances away from the glowing screen of whatever arcade machine the pair picked to beat the previous high scorer's score.

"You okay?" Kilik asks, ever more perceptive than Blake.

"No," Soul growls. He's acting like a brat. Asking them to take him in until he feels calm and strong enough to face the silent wrath of his parents is out of the question. He tries to swallow the ire threatening to compel him to punch Blake, but can't. A few wandering eyes of other arcade goers are trained on him - as much as Soul hates to admit it, Blake is right. Wearing his tuxedo - his mother insists that they all dress up for dinner - makes him look grossly out of place.

It shouldn't be a new feeling. Soul has never fit in anywhere quite right.

"Never mind," he sighs, retreating. His head is spinning. Safety doesn't exist, not even among the friends he's had since the age of four. There are too many eerie lights in this place anyway.

X

He searches for a place to fall asleep and never wake up.

There isn't something tangibly wrong with him. He just is… wrong. Different. Soul isn't even in tune with himself - that's how much he dislikes himself. That's why he denies himself a soft, safe bed to sleep in tonight. The park where Wes took him on weekends when their parents were on tour with Whatever Symphony is not even two blocks from his house, which makes it a perfect candidate for shelter.

The slide that Soul chooses to sleep in for the night feels so lonely. It's cold, as if it hasn't seen a visitor in years. Maybe that's his body projecting his feelings onto inanimate objects. Loneliness drenches his soul - he's even more lonely than he felt at home, with the imp staring at him from behind the cracked door. He almost wishes it would come keep him company.

He's kind of broken like that.

X

Soul falls asleep under the starless sky.

In his dream, he's at the edge of a forest where something is waiting for him. He isn't sure if he should be scared. Somewhere, a wheezy pump blows air leisurely, like the forest is breathing through a raspy, failing ventilator. There is no wind; the crooked tree trunks expand and relax the same way a human's chest rises and falls as they breathe. The murky blue sky hemorrhages red against the blackness of the forest's leaves. Misty clouds scintillate above him, silvery and quiet, as if holding secrets and grim promises.

Sticks break beneath his feet as he enters the forest. Intuition tells him that some _one_ beckons him from the other side. Curiosity may kill him, but not knowing might also undo him - his bones go numb every time he backtracks. They fizzle like soda erupting from a can. It's like Soul is being pulled by an invisible force, and he hopes his destination isn't lethal just yet.

Muffled cackles chorus along with the respirator the deeper he ventures, but everytime Soul twists and jerks around to catch the culprit, he sees nothing. The bark on the trees stares back at him, as black and grainy as coal. Tree branches seem to reach out and graze his cheek the further he travels. Swatting them away only encourages them to swing back more violently.

The sixth time he ducks to avoid a branch slicing his head off, he sees it - the imp, its huge, lopsided eyes nothing but black pupils - grinning madly from a tree branch. It sinks its long nails into the bark, sucking the tree's life out. The imp claws a good chunk of bark and stuffs it in its mouth, chewing noisily.

And then it looks right at Soul. Hungrily.

But he is faster for once. He runs through the darkness, dodging finger-like branches and keeping his heart in his chest by placing a hand across his sternum - to make sure it doesn't fall out, or something like that.

Behind him, the imp skips as it follows Soul's footsteps, the intermittent, unsynced blinking creepier than the hum it drones. Soon it starts clapping its wart spotted hands to the tune of Soul's frenzied heart beat. When ropes of drool rocket out of its mouth, Soul can't help but brood over their similarities - the striped tuxedo the imp wears is one Soul wore to his eighth grade graduation recital.

cLAP CLap cCLap. cLap!

" _I know your naaaaame, and I want your soul,"_ it giggles, gnawing on its knobby fingers. " _You're not a lucky lucky lucky ducky, not a lucky ducky."_

Soul runs, but the imp is right on his heels, a trail of slimy drool behind him. If Soul cared a little bit less about himself, he would have stopped running a long time ago. What's the worst the imp could do to him? Aside from snapping his spine into thirds, the worst trauma he will probably face is emotional scarring. Curiosity won't let him rest either - something is drawing him into the other side of the forest and he has to know what.

cLAP CLap cCLap. cLap!

 _claP cLaP clAp!_

Obstacles appear in his path. What isn't clear is who puts them there. It could be the imp trying to slow Soul's pace, or it could be Soul sabotaging himself. Wes's violin rises up from the earth like a burgeoning flower. Soul almost pauses to pluck it up - surely his brother misses it, he loves it second best to Soul (sometimes more, sometimes more.)

As soon as the imp makes a dive for Soul's heels and his miserable life flashes before his eyes, everything disappears much like it did a few days earlier, with a _pop_! He falls out of the forest and onto a dirt road that leads up to a cathedral. It's out of place against the lightening blue sky and pink clouds that are the same shade of pink as Maka's cheeks.

It's an imagine that will be forever ingrained into his memory, not because they add to the lure of her smile, but because it's the first thing he sees when he climbs off the floor.

"Maka?" He hasn't said her name in _so long._ So long that he had worried his tongue wouldn't know how to articulate the two syllables of her name. In retrospect, he's never uttered it outside of his dreams. At the current moment, he can't tell if he's falling into another night terror or if the Earth has finally devoured him and sent him straight to Hell.

"That's my name," she says cheerily. "Glad you could make it. It's nice to see you again."

"You're always there for me when I need help," he gasps, wiping the dirt off his blazer's sleeves. His mother will be angry if stains set in, after all. "Who are you? Why are you always with me?"

He doesn't mean to sound rude. The way his voice cracks like it's made out of glass exposes his vulnerability, and he's okay with this for once, because it's Maka.

All she does is smile at him brightly. "I'm your Dream Walker."

X

Maka's hand is warm.

Skin must have its own memory, even in dreams, because as soon as she laces her fingers between his and they walk into the lonely cathedral, he's flooded with emotions. How had he thought they had never touched before? So easily he had forgotten their first meeting, when she pulled him into hiding and silenced him with her palm to his lips. It wasn't the action of this that stopped his panicking, but how real her skin felt.

Soul can't help but stare. She's more than a just a dream.

Maka drops his hand gently once the door locks behind them, twirling down the aisle, her dress hem flying. "I like to hang out here when you aren't dreaming," she says.

Soul's mouth flops open. "Uhh.. huh?"

"This is your dream," she says, shrugging, plopping down on a pew and beckoning him over. His feet are moving before he can blink. "I don't know, this is your dream, your cathedral. How did you think of it?"

"Uhh… I think I saw it somewhere during a vacation with my family. It looks like this cathedral in Italy that had kinda gothic-y architecture. I don't know, I guess..." It's too much to take in. Confusion drills holes into his brain. When his rear hits the uncomfortable pew, Maka scoots closer to him, and he doesn't mind, doesn't mind. "Look, I have no idea what's going on. Mind filling me in?"

She scrunches up her face, her button nose wrinkling. It's a giveaway sign that she's thinking. Some people stick their tongues out when they're deep in thought, and she's the type to scrunch her nose and furrow her brows and purse her lips. She portrays emotion in this adorable, innocuous way.

It's charming.

"I'm your Dream Walker," she repeats, as if it's clear as day. "I've been trying to get you to come here but we always get distracted." She blushes quickly, wiggling in her seat. "This world is real, Soul, it's called a Dream World. You built it. See, there are people who are Lucid Dreamers, who basically know they're asleep and can control their dreams. Those kind of dreamers don't need dreamwalkers-"

"-Who are like guardian angels for people like me, who have nightmares," he finishes dejectedly, frowning. Of _fucking_ course he's been given this awful card. He can't get a break. It's somehow comforting that he now knows his childhood nightmares _didn't_ have a rational, medical explanation. He's just unlucky. "My life sucks, but at least I have an angel."

"Oh…" She's as red as sin right now. "I mean, I'm no angel! I'm a girl."

Soul hikes up a skeptical eyebrow. "So I can't call you my angel?"

"No. I mean, I wouldn't mind it-"

"Good, because I'm not calling you that. That's lame." It wouldn't be so bad actually, but he has a front to uphold, and he doesn't know her in that way. They've only met in his dreams.

Maka scowls, bites back a laugh, and swats his shoulder. " _Anyway,_ it's not like your night terrors are permanent or anything!"

Soul snaps his head to her too quickly. Stars hover around Maka, sparkling and fading. "I can be cured of these nightmares?"

"Night terrors," Maka corrects gently, nodding. "You're going to be okay, Soul, I promise." Her face is suddenly somber, very somber. "Do you like dreaming?"

"... If you're in it, yeah. Before you, not really. No…"

"I love dreaming," she says. "I love it, and I just want you to love it, too. I'm going to help you. Now that we're together on this side of the forest, we can start doing some serious work to get you free of these terrors."

"You're gonna be here with me, right?" If it sounds desperate, Soul doesn't care. He doesn't give one or two or four damns about it. He needs her.

She tilts her head toward him like she's about to tell him a secret. "Yeah, of course." And she holds out her fingers, wiggling them. Her voice is softer than a flower petal. "And you'll be by my side, too?"

Soul melts like wax. "Yeah," he whispers, meeting her fingertips.


	2. They Fell Asleep

_(They Fell Asleep)_

X

While Soul and Maka grow closer like two flowers reaching for one another, as if each hold a little piece of sunshine, he and Wes drift apart.

It's almost as if Soul can only have one of them.

Part of the problem may be that Soul sleeps a lot. A few months ago, he would have readily admitted that his only reason for waking was to stop by the bathroom on his way to sit through an awkward family dinner and pick at his food. He had not wanted to exist. He's never necessarily wanted to die - what happens after death? Does it hurt? What if Wes misses him? - but fumbling through the day with bleary eyes and below zero motivation had not been ideal, either. It physically hurt.

So he slept a lot.

But now he dedicates sixteen hours a day to dreaming because of _Maka._ Together they explore the fields surrounding the cathedral, Maka picking dandelions and asking him to make a wish before blowing at them. He wishes for the same thing every time: that he will fall asleep and never wake up. Because he's never been wordy, he doesn't specify that he would like to fall into an eternal dream to be beside Maka, but he figures that wishes don't come true, and if they did, it should be enough that he locks his gaze on her every time he wishes.

There is a celestial vibe to the fields. They don't talk about the forest that waits nearby; if they turn their backs to it, maybe it won't exist anymore.

Soul is a boy who is used to living within a gated high-class neighborhood where everyone drives a Porsche, so he's never experienced real nature before. Maka chases after wild rabbits; Soul chases after her, and they lay on the grass and point out clouds to each other. The world is so colorful. It must be why the greenness of Maka's eyes stuns him. They're not the same vibrant shade as the leaves that gently sway in the trees every time the wind rolls through, but there is something about them that's both otherworldly and heavenly.

Soul stares. A lot.

Maka notices.

She's sly in the way she lets him know he's lingering too long when he's supposed to be waking up. Maybe she suspects he enjoys her company more than he lets on, too, because she smiles too much when he says he likes watching the sunset with her, which in turn prompts his skin to redden. He's an idiot for her, both when he's around her and when he's awake. Sometimes his father will go out of his way to ask Soul, "What are you daydreaming about?" whenever he investigates why Soul has stopped half-assedly practicing a piece.

It's funny how he's only noticed when the music stops.

He follows Maka wherever she leads, which is ridiculous. It's _his_ Dream World, but she knows it better than she knows the back of her hand, or the cover of her favorite poetry book. He challenges her to climb a tree, and she does a victory shoulder shimmy before offering a hand to pull him up so they can enjoy the view together. Childhood rhymes float through his head: _Soul and Maka sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g_.

"When I was little, my papa hung a swing for me on the tree that was in the front yard," she says off-handedly one day. She does this a lot, sprinkles tidbits of information about herself. Soul doesn't pry. "The tree branch that held the swing broke during a storm. That was after mama got lost."

"Lost?"

"Mhm... one day she fell asleep and never woke up."

"Oh," Soul breathes.

X

Maka opens up to him slowly, like a flower that is hesitant to bloom.

It's true that the flower that blooms last live the longest.

Soul learns that Maka's mother went into a coma and was trapped between the conscious and unconscious for a few months. And then her papa, driven into madness from missing his wife so much, also fell into a permanent sleep.

"She just… didn't wake up," Maka says, dry-eyed. Soul guesses that she's cried herself out, much like he has. "And I should have known that Papa would go after her, but I was

still surprised when I went into his room and couldn't wake him up."

Fear wraps its fingers around his throat like a bow-tie. Maka is too horror-stricken by what happened for Soul to admit that he wishes for the very same thing that took her parents. She confides in Soul that her parents were far from flawless: her papa had a penchant for cheating, brothels, and indulging in too many alcoholic beverages, and her mama worked too much and recklessly spent money. Maka's theory is that people fall asleep and never wake up because they're emotionally unstable, and that true, genuine self-love is the key to safely having a Dream World.

"So they're trapped in their Dream Worlds?" Soul asks, picking away at the grass they're sitting on.

"That's what I think," she says. She hugs her knees closer and stares wistfully at the horizon. "The medical community doesn't really believe in Dream Worlds. I don't blame them. Why would they, when science doesn't back it up? But it's one of those supernatural things that can't be explained, and something not everyone experiences."

"That's why I've never told anyone about the dreams I have," Soul admits. "Besides my brother, of course. He seems to get it."

Maka smiles at him. When she does, he falls a little bit more in love with the greenness of her eyes and the way they reflect the last rays of sunshine. "You're really lucky to have him."

"I am." Soul smiles, completely, absolutely lost. He forgets to mention the demon, but he doesn't want to ruin their limited time together by talking about things that make him want to die. She's here to help him, after all. He doesn't want to taint what they have, though, so he keeps his secrets to himself - held on the edge of his tongue, where they should be.

In retrospect, he should have said something.

"I had a lot of nightmares when I was a kid," Soul says after a few beats of heavy silence. It feels right to open up, like he's ripping a bandaid off a wound to let it heal. "Wes used to sleep in my room every night. He said it was because he would kick anyone's ass who tried to scare me. But then he went to college and the dreams got worse." He sighs. "He still tries, but I'm kind of too old for that stuff."

"I guess things change. People leave and never come back," Maka says, looking at him.

x

Soul falls in love with the fire in her eyes, slowly but surely.

As an excuse to stare at the way her lips move when she talks, he interrupts her rant about dreamscapes and lullabies her mama hummed during bed times. He can't help but succumb to the butterflies in his belly. "You know, for someone so dainty, you're kind of cool."

She raises a flawlessly groomed brow. "No one ever said I couldn't be more than two things at once. I can be small and I can be strong. People are complicated like that."

"Ughhh, I know the feeling," he sighs, throwing his arms behind his head. Maka hasn't scolded him for propping his feet on the pew in front of them or spewing swears in a holy place just yet. By the way she purses her lips every time he lets out a crude four letter word, Soul can tell she's a step closer to losing her patience.

"Oh, I already know," Maka says, regaining her composure and winking. "I know more about you than you think. We share our souls when we dream together."

A blush is surely coloring his cheeks a zealous shade of red, the type no one would misread as innocent. "How do I know you're not just something out of my imagination? Or that you're not that ugly demon thingy in a disguise?"

"You'll just have to trust me. You said I was cool, remember?"

And he does trust her - trusts her like a seat belt that is supposed to prevent him from flying through the windshield as a result of a sudden stop, trusts her more than the promise of the sun rising the next day, trusts her more than he trusts himself. But that's not what he says, God no - slipping back into pretending to be a cool guy is as comfortable as sliding behind the piano. "I wouldn't trust you with a bag of potato chips."

She sticks her tongue out at him playfully, the raspberry she blows just as endearing to him as her pigtails. It's downright ridiculous that he's attached to this girl with dreamy eyes and a quirky sense of smartassery that compliments his own dark humor.

But Soul's crush is real, and he has to keep it a secret.

It's four levels of cheesy and cliche; he wants to claw his scalp off as soon as he realizes he's fallen in a pit, but he has zero regrets and a lot of hope about sleeping peacefully. It's been two weeks since they reunited, and she's been talking his ear off about everything from memories to strange dreams she's had.

Maybe he's mislabeling his feelings. Ever since they first met at the church, he's been night terror-free. Maka's his dream walker, his guardian angel, his savior - not that he wants to let this side of himself out. One thing about having a stony, aloof facade is that he's conditioned to believe it sometimes. The mask is his go-to when he's afraid to get too close to someone, like he has to protect an open wound on his chest from contamination.

He clears his throat noisily to change the subject. Bravery and curiosity have filled him with enough guts to ask the important questions, like where she lives, and if he could go meet in her person.

He knows curiosity kills like an odorless gas, so he doesn't mention it.

She has learned a trick or two from him, too - not to let anything faze her, especially snippy comebacks. "I'm so glad you trust me that much. Isn't this nice, hanging out again?"

"How come we can see each other again all of a sudden?" It's deja vu. Soul blinks away the feeling that he's lived through this moment several times before, that he's articulated this very same question a thousand lives in a row. "It seemed like something was keeping us apart, and now you can suddenly come into my dreams again? What gives?"

But when she opens her mouth to respond, the world is ripped from underneath them again.

X

A sloppy, slobbery tongue licks up his cheek.

"Gross," Soul moans, automatically sticking his open hand on the dog's chest. On the other end of its leash, Wes flashes an amused grin at him.

"Corgi needed a walk," he explains without prompting, shrugging. No dignified young gentlemen wanders outside at midnight in a superman robe and slippers, which is why Wes is dressed in grey slacks and a tucked in button-up, like the good son he is. Soul resists glancing down at his wrinkled, grass stained pajamas and scoffing at himself.

"Whatever," Soul says, sitting up, groggy and still fuming about the his parent's dinner party. It's infuriating enough to have his family question him about what he's doing with his life, but when snooty strangers dressed in designer everything, including socks and panties, interrogate him about college, he acts on his impulse to run away.

The park has offered him a new refuge since the first time he jumped out of his window in search of refuge.

Wes apparently feels compelled to say this, too, "You like coming here a lot, huh?"

The family pet - _Wes_ 's illegal corgi, the one he snuck in after his mother forbade fur pets because of "all that unnecessary shedding the beastly things do" - hops up on Soul's lap, narrowly digging a claw into his sensitive, vulnerable man parts. "Stop drooling on me, Corgi - yeah Wes, I thought I'd come sleep out here since Mom and Dad's party is so loud."

"Too bad they don't just buy a bigger house," Wes laughs. Rare is it for him to express anything but contentment of their parent's social lives and excess wealth. Because he's never had to deal directly with dubious looks or been the recipient of disparagement, Wes probably can't relate to Soul's struggles, but he earns a shit ton of infinite kudos for trying to understand.

"I'm sick of them constantly having people over," Soul says. "The house is already so big and I can hear them anyway. Ughh…" Already in a bad mood from remembering the echoes of snooty chuckles and being woken up from a dream where he and Maka were playing tic-tac-toe, Soul lets himself scowl, hunching over. "Did you come looking for me?"

Wes shrugs easily. "Corgi-chan needed a walk," is all he says. Fury shoots through Soul's blood for the briefest of seconds - being on the receiving end of smartassery isn't as fun as dishing it out. Part of Soul is touched that Wes thought of checking up on him. Part of him feels like his privacy has been violated - how did Wes know to look for him here?

X

Wes's damning quality is that he's too selfless.

Many a time has this benefited Soul. For example, Wes was there for Soul during most of his stage-fright related panic attacks, and he's always been the mediator in the family, especially the numerous times Soul hasn't seen eye to eye with his demanding parents. There are no words for Soul to describe how grateful he is to have a caring older brother. He would be so much more messed up if he didn't have Wes. He would literally give Soul the shirt off his back and throw himself in front of a car if it meant saving his little brother.

In retrospect, that's the problem that promised everything would go straight to Hell.

Wes is definitely too selfless.

X

Soul's fatal flaw is that he's too passive. He lets things happen to him. He should have known that the demon couldn't have disappeared easily, should have known that nightmares are dreams and dreams are nightmares, should have known he can't have nice things.

Loneliness does things to a person.

X

They trudge back to the grandiose house in silence.

When Soul reemerges from his bathroom, he doesn't expect to find his brother still lurking in his room, but alas, he's hanging out on the mini balcony. Inwardly, Soul cringes - if he were looking at himself from an outsider's point of view, he'd call himself a whiny, privileged, spoiled brat, but he's never taken the neat house amenities for granted.

Wes catches sight of him and winks, straight, perfect teeth practically glowing. "Want to go somewhere cool?"

Soul winces at how lame the word sounds coming out of a grown man's mouth. He leans against the fence, hoping that the stone cracks and lets him fall fifteen feet to his death. "Uh, no?"

"I really wanna show you this place," Wes begins, face ironed into dead seriousness. "Please?"

Regret is partly responsible for Soul saying yes. On the one hand, he definitely wants to be included in Wes's life, but he also wants to fall into bed and back into a dream about Maka. With Maka.

"Uhh, I mean, I guess," Soul relents. "How do we get there?"

Guiding Soul inside by the shoulders, Wes steers them back inside. "We have to sleep."

X

There is nothingness, and in middle of nothingness, there is a floating hallway of white doors with silver door knobs that don't look like they've ever been touched.

None of it makes sense, so it's clear that he's in a dream. Disappointment knees him in the gut when he doesn't feel Maka nearby. Wes appears from the nothingness behind him, clapping his hands - not that it makes any sound. In this purgatory, the silence is empty and heavy, like they're trapped in invisible water, unknowingly suffocating. Tugging Soul by the sleeve, Wes motions for him to follow. His mouth moves, but Soul's ears can't pick up a single sound, not even the animated yodels Wes seems to be howling, or him throwing the door open.

And then all too suddenly, noise meets silence.

They're in the middle of a gigantic city, cars with pristine paint jobs cruising by, the busses running on a perfect schedule, and happy people following unspoken sidewalk rules: walk on the right and don't litter. The city is orderly and metallic and nothing like Soul's ever seen before.

"This is Genesis, Soul - my dream city!"

Soul can't tell if he's lost his ability to speak. At least his legs still work. For what seems like weeks, Wes, wearing a look of fear and worry, guides Soul by the elbow until they come across a bench. Soul needs the rest so that he doesn't pass out from shock.

"Fucking figures you're a Lucid Dreamer," he says for the fifth time in a span of twenty minutes. He has a headache. Wes is the only decent brother in this family - while Soul should be ecstatic for his brother, envy fills him to the brim, and bitterness tops it all off. How is it fair that Wes always gets the better end of deals? Why can't there be enough luck for the two of them to share?

Soul shouldn't be nursing a grudge against the same brother who tries to give him a heads up when their parents want to lecture him. Soul should be happy. but for a moment, he has regressed to being a jealous five year old who can't understand why he's been tormented by nightmares while Wes has been living in a dream.

"I'm sorry I'm just now telling you," Wes says, drumming a rapid, boring rhythm on his kneecaps using his pointer fingers. "I didn't know how to bring it up. Lately… lately you've been sleeping a lot and I thought if I showed you my dream city, it could inspire you to make your own." He sighs dejectedly. "You just seem so down lately. I guess I'd thought bringing you here would get your mind off your own bad dreams… This place always makes me happy. Maybe it can do the same for you?"

This only makes Soul feel worse. Not only is he selfish, but he's a huge source of worry for Wes, who has enough pressure of his own to shoulder. And Soul's reasons for sleeping sixteen hours a day don't stem from an urgent desire to escape the dullness of his life - it's to see Maka. Just the thought of her perks him up. Could she find her way into Wes's city?

For the first time since they arrived, Soul can look into his brother's face without remorse - just as two hands come from either side of Wes's head to shield his eyes, long, purple nails glinting in the metallic sunshine.

"Peek a boo, guess who!"

Wes's smile fills the sky. "Hey Blair!"

The young woman purrs contently, resting her chin on top of Wes's head. Wide eyes twinkle at Soul from beneath inky eyelashes. "Ooooooh, I didn't know you were bringing a guest. He looks just like you. Is that your little brother? He's soooo adorable."

Soul's blush stems more from confusion than flattery - should he be offended that she pinches his cheeks, squeezes his shoulders to assess his foxiness, and comments that he will eventually grow his bird's nest into sexy bedhead hair? She releases Wes in order to reel Soul in for a welcoming hug. Never did Soul imagine that the first time a woman guided his head to nuzzle her cleavage would be in his brother's dreams. Yet here he is, screaming into her voluptuous boobs about the correlation between breathing and brain cells.

"Adorable, just adorable," Blair coos, ruffling his hair messily. Whether she's being condescending or generally appreciates his 'cutiepie scowl,' he doesn't care to find out. It's not that she rubs him the wrong way, it's just that he's never quite known how to act around extroverts. The louder someone's personality is, the softer he becomes.

Soul lightly slaps Blair's hand away and catches Wes's attention with a hard stare. "Who's the stripper?"

"My girlfriend. Don't be judgemental, Soul."

"I'm trying… I _really_ am, but it's kind of hard when you find out your brother imagined a whole world in his head and even made up a girlfriend."

Wes isn't caught off guard at all. "Oh, Blair isn't imagined. She's real."

People who freely display their emotions are both fascinating and eerie to Soul. Anyone who possesses the ability to wear their heart on their sleeve is certifiably intimidating. When Blair's glamorous grin fades to a distant, melancholy frown, he knows he's 1) uttered the wrong thing, and 2) in the presence of someone whose spirit can't be completely broken.

"I'm not quite alive in the real world," she says matter-of-factly. "One day, I fell asleep and never woke up. My body's in a coma and I cope by going into people's dreams. That's how I met Wes." The look she gives Wes makes Soul feel like he's a pervert interrupting an intimate moment. "Dream hopping is fun."

 _Never woke up._

To relieve his uneasiness, Soul decides to change the subject. "How did we get here, anyway?"

"Through a door," Wes says easily.

"I _know_ , but how is that possible?"

"It's a dream, Soul. There isn't a rational explanation." Standing up, Wes brushes of his pant leg (probably a habit he picked up thanks to their mother constantly reminding them to look sharp at events) before wrapping an arm around Blair. "C'mon, I'll show you around!"

X

Instead of taking Soul to the amusement park that has attracted a majority of the population, or to the best restaurants in the city, Wes takes Soul to quieter, less crowded places. It means the world to Soul. There is an abundance of sushi carts, all of which Wes has assigned a rating of 1 through 10 on mostly likely to cause food poisoning.

"Even in dreams, not everything is perfect," Wes says wisely to Soul, nodding to the California rolls Soul had his eyes on.

Wes shows him the movie theatre where Blair buys Soul a bag of popcorn, the statue of a dog by the train station that looks just like Corgi, and the ice cream shop. The old woman who works there doesn't recognize Wes when they first walk in, but as soon as she touches his cheek, her memory comes back quicker than a whip. She pinches him, calls him "Wessie." and while Wes shuffles embarrassedly from foot to foot, Blair meows affectionately, stroking Wes's hair.

Soul sits at the table by himself and watches his brother accept love so _easily_ , rocky road melting off his waffle cone and onto his knuckles. Usually he enjoys all varieties of sweets, but today he can't. Maybe it's because none of this is real. No matter what Wes insists, Blair is basically dead and this world is a coping mechanism for him. It's ugly.

But Soul can't burst his brother's bubble.

He should, but he doesn't, and he regrets it later.

X

The last stop is a carnival at the heart of the city.

It's eerie. Masked people reach out to touch Wes. Apparently, Soul looks like a carbon copy of his blond brother, because soon the unwarranted petting reminds him of the trees from the forest. The combination of bone rattlingly loud music, strobe lights, and clownish costumes makes Soul's stomach drop like it's warning him that danger is near.

The ferris wheel looks wobbly, like it's about to fall off its hinges.

'Strange' isn't a precise enough word to describe Genesis. If it's true that dreams are extensions of the sleeper's mind, then Wes's must be delusional. Everyone who passes them on the sidewalk stops to greet them - to greet Wes, to shake his hand, clasp his shoulder, and draw him in for a hug. Words of affirmation follow gleeful, fanatic exclamations of "ahhh it's really you!" More so than in real life, Wes is a celebrity in this world. The accolades and praises that people poured into him are nothing compared to the love he gets here.

Perhaps Wes can't see how problematic the situation is because this is his reality, but from an outsider's perspective, this world is borderline crazy. People flock to Wes like he's the main course of an expensive meal at a five star restaurant. The gleam in their eyes is scary, like they'd rip his arm off and keep it for themselves if the opportunity presented itself.

Someone with a mask that only covers their eyes flashes a pointy toothed leer at Soul as they trudge through the crowd, one that reminds him too much of the little demon. "Gimme your soul," it hisses, jiggling violently.

Despite the suffocating humidity, he can't help but shiver as the person skips away.

Soul is all too eager to wake up for once. He doesn't want to sleep forever - at least not in this dream. From a physical and emotional distance, because he can't save Wes if he isn't objective, Soul stays on the lookout for anything suspicious. Exactly what, he's not sure.

Blair catches him staring, and her reaction isn't anything like Maka's. She's an outright, unapologetic flirt - not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that he isn't comfortable with the boob hugs and teasing remarks about potential love interests, or the fact that she and his brother don't have any common courtesy. They're the type of couple who communicate through touch, no matter whose presence they're in. Although public displays of affection make Soul cringe, he keeps his lips shut tight for his brother's sake.

When Soul stops to think about it, Wes has never officially brought home a girl to meet the family, nor has he had any flings. He's been all school, school, school. Music, music, music. He deserves some happiness, even if it's not real.

Pity takes over. Maybe Wes has imagined this world and imagined that someone out there loves him.

What also worries Soul is what this all means for him and his dreams. What it means about Maka.

Wes stops by a shooting alley as they wander among the stands, determination glinting in his eyes. "I'm going to win you that big purple stuffed cat, Blair."

She purrs her approval. "You're beyond sweet, Wes."

Soul almost makes a barfing sound. Then he remembers that this is his chance to support Wes for once and swallows his faint disgust.

Claustrophobia sets in. All too suddenly, everyone and their mother catches wind that their hero Wes Evans is proving his love to his girlfriend by winning her a stuffed animal. Soul is pushed to the side by overzealous admirers, some burning with envy. Bitterness ices over his heart. Of course he's cast off into the shadows when Wes is around… of _course_.

He's stuffing his hands in his pocket and walking away when there's a gunshot, the sound of glass bottles clanking against each other, and the crowd erupting in a roar. Soul looks over his shoulder just in time to see Blair jumping into Wes's arms, lips stitched to his. As much as Soul feels awkward, he's happy - Wes deserves to be happy. He fights his way through the throng of giggling girls to lightly punch Wes on the shoulder.

"Hey, I wanna go home," he says, immediately regretting it. He sounds like the privileged, whiny punk he's never wanted to resemble. "I mean, it's almost morning, right? Mom wanted to have breakfast as a family before she went on her trip."

Blair is too busy sucking on Wes's neck to respond, but Wes, his brotherly senses probably tingling, opens his eyelids and looks at Soul, brows shooting up into his bangs. "Damn, you're right. We should go…"

Five minutes later, Wes navigates them through the masses, carrying Blair bridal style because she asked. The PDA is embarrassing and Soul follows a few paces behind. His resolve to find answers about exactly how the Dream World works lessens - it's really not his problem if Wes copes with being too well known for his talents rather than his personality by creating a world where everyone compliments his kindness. That ranks low on an emergency scale, if there is such a thing for dreams.

"Blair, this is it. I have to take Soul home," he says, putting her down gingerly. Is it irrational that Soul wants to hurry up and _leave_ because they're standing by the unstable ferris wheel. What if it rolls off and squishes them?

Blair pouts and protests, but ultimately buries him in another hug that makes Soul feel like a downright asshole for cutting the trip short.

And that feeling takes on an all too permanent meaning a few seconds later. As she's planting one final kiss on Wes's cheek, a short figure skips by, digging his obnoxiously long nails into her side where Wes had just had his hand resting. Blair's face melts from lovesick to horrified at a sickening speed, much too drastic a change for this to have happened between seconds. She drops the purple cat. In one swift, practiced movement, the demon sweeps Blair up like a football, tucking her between his elbow and its side. The bells attached to the ends of its joker hats ring shrilly, cheerily, hauntingly.

The image of Blair's limp body is seared into Soul's memory.

Wes stands there numbly.

Hell officially breaks loose. Neither of the Evans brothers is the first to react. No, instead, it's a little girl who holds on to her father's hand tightly, shrieking, "Scary nails, sharp nails, I wanna go home!" It sets off a domino effect: howls, discord, panic. Stands fall into themselves as people lose their sanity amidst the chaos, people being trampled under desperate footfalls.

Soul wants to go home, too. He's decided to grab Wes and run in the opposite direction when Wes breaks free from shock. Screaming, he takes off after the demon who's made a scratching post of Blair. Poor Blair. Soul was wrong to have resented her. For the same reasons Wes idiotically charges after the demon despite it weaving between people and disappearing in plain sight. Soul follows him - out of undying, unconditional, blind love for his brother.

Dreams are nightmares.

X

Wes's lungs give out a block later because he's crying too hard to breathe.

His knees fold beneath him like cardboard. Heartbreak has many forms, Soul finds out today. There is the type that is self-inflicted, negative thoughts and low self esteem acting as a double-edged sword. And then there exists the variety that is unexpected, where neither party is to blame. Fate is cruel. This is the kind Soul witnesses as Wes begs the ground to return Blair. It changes Soul. Dreams are supposed to be an escape - at least that's how he's viewed them, thanks to Maka.

"We need to wake up," Soul pleads, hooking his arms under Wes's armpits in a failing effort to pick him up. "We need to wake up and find out what's going on-"

"I don't want to! Not until we find Blair," Wes bawls.

Soul would rather sink a butcher's knife right into his stomach than fail at comforting his brother, at which he's doing a spectacular job. His passiveness is a disgrace. If only he had been paying attention to how they arrived into Genesis - they had stepped through a door, but where was it?

How did Soul get here? Blacking out isn't as relieving as it used to be only a few weeks earlier.

Despite the demon being nowhere in sight, Wes continues his hopeless mission to retrieve Blair. He swats Soul away to crawl forward, slacks dirtied and ripped and ruined, ruined, ruined. Swearing between heaves, Wes dips his head until it smacks the concrete with a terrible _thump_ , praying, begging, bursting at the seams with sorrow.

It's time for Soul to pay Wes back in full for his kindness. Kneeling down and whipping off his shirt, Soul puts a soft hand on Wes's shoulder, helps him straighten up, and presses the white cotton against his bleeding temples. Suddenly, Soul is overwhelmed by both power and helplessness. It's his responsibility to learn Wes's Dream World if he wants to escape. He should have been paying more attention.

But, Soul also knows that Wes is Wes, and their brotherly bond is not one that can be shadowed by grief for too long. Wes's sobs lessen into hiccups, and after his chest returns to a normal rising and falling (it reminds Soul of the forest, of its raspy breaths), he looks at Soul between messy bangs.

"We should go home," Wes says quietly. Soul wishes he could provide some soothing words of reassurance, but to use lies as a blanket would be wrong. It's unlikely that Blair survived being impaled by nails. The memory of the demon clawing bark off the trees and stuffing it in its mouth replays like an omen in Soul's mind's eye.

"Let's go home," Soul agrees kindly. Coincidences don't mean a thing to him - there has to be more of a meaning to the fact that Wes loses Blair the day Wes decides to share his Dream World with Soul.

It's almost as if Wes can only have one of them.


	3. And Never Woke Up

_(And Never Woke Up)_

X

Corgi's bark awakens Soul, who sits abruptly, gasping for breath as if he's breaking the surface of water.

Immediately he turns to look for Wes, who had fallen asleep beside him. But Wes hasn't sprung out of the door in search of the hospital that houses Blair's body, like Soul had imagined. He's sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows propped on his knees, the skin on his face stretched out tight over his cheekbones. He's as white as milk and oblivious to his pet, who's whining and rubbing herself against his leg, looking for affection.

Soul has never seen Wes frown before, but there is a first time for everything.

"We're leaving to get help," Wes says abruptly. "Pack up, we're going west."

Luckily, Soul had not given up his Emergency Escape Kit.

X

The trip is long, silent, suffocating, and _hot_.

It's mid-July, when the sun is at its cruelest.

Ironically, Soul stays awake for most of it. He sits awkwardly next to his brother, whose fingers must ache from gripping the steering wheel too desperately. Wes's eyelids are peeled back - he barely blinks. Hours of coaxing finally leads to a weary Wes pulling the car to the side of the lonely highway so Soul can drive the rest of the way to Nevada. Learner's permit or not, Soul is confident in his ability to manage the Porsche across the isolated desert while Wes dozes off in search of Blair.

He doesn't think Wes will find her, but he doesn't want to burst his brother's bubble. Wes deserves happiness, even if it's imagined.

Something about the road lulls Soul into sleepiness. Whether the lines painted on the pavement hypnotize or not is the question. The hum of the engine is a lullaby. His muscles melt into the leather seat, a little _too_ relaxed. He wonders if this is his wish coming true: to fall asleep and never wake up. At this point, he wouldn't mind; he's caused his brother too much suffering, and he likes dreaming better than the dullness of life.

Flashbacks to his snippy mother snatching away the crumpled paper that was a substitute for the driver's license fuel him to stay awake. He won't mess this up, won't mess this up, won't mess this up. This is his opportunity to help Wes.

Soul is a worrier by nature. He reaches out to shake Wes when he hasn't stirred for quite a while.

What if Wes goes to sleep and never wakes up?

Loneliness does things to a person.

X

Dreams are nightmares and nightmares are dreams.

X

"... Pull over at that house," Wes's groggy voice says, but Soul is already making a sharp right turn into the gravelly driveway leading to the two story house that looks like it's held together by madness. Cracks that remind him of stitches run along its walls, its porch housing an assortment of potted plants. But that's not what's grabbed his attention. A pigtailed girl using her hand as a visor is paused midway through picking one of them up, staring at them with eyes as green as grass in the summer.

Soul's heart stops.

So does hers. He can tell by the way her lips part and her grip on the pot slackens.

Wes doesn't wait for the car to slow to a stop to jump out, screaming, "Professor Stein! Professor Stein!" He sprints past Maka Albarn into the house that seems as dark inside as it is bright outside.

Maka and Soul stare at each other.

She's just as he's seen her in his dreams: a petite, lean thing that makes the world around her hold its breath. Air particles must slow down near her because time stands still, not a hum nor a buzz interrupting the still silence. Soul fumbles to locate the door handle, finding it twice as difficult to climb out of the car than necessary. Standing on the dry, cracked ground is surreal, but not as surreal as taking small steps toward her like he's walking down the aisle.

He stops by the bottom step and looks up at her.

Up close, faint freckles dot the curves of her cheeks. Each of her eyelashes are blades of gold that frame green gems. Soul can't tell if his skin is sweltering because of the Nevada heat, or if it can be attributed to self consciousness. What does she see in him?

"Holy shit," he breathes. "You're real."

She breaks into a smile much like glass breaks when it's struck by a projectile. Soul ignores this omen because ber laughter is wonderful. "Yeah, and you're real, too."

He grins for the first time since… he can't remember. "Holy shit," he says again, laughing, hands moving by themselves as if to count her freckles.

She can read his mind. "It's okay, you can touch me," she laughs.

But he can't move. Any sudden movements could possibly wake him from this dream - distinguishing between reality and fantasy is a skill he has gradually lost.

Maka is a natural born leader, and he's a follower through and through. She asks hesitantly, "Can I?" He nods, and she leaps off the porch and into his arms like an old friend who has returned from the brink of death. She is warm; he holds her so tight he can feel her bones shift underneath her skin whenever she moves. In a fit of sheer glee, she tightens her arms around his waist and, with a squeaky giggle, lifts him up. His toes trail lightly on the dust-covered ground as she spins around once, twice, three times.

"Holy shit" seems to be the only expression in his vocabulary.

When she puts them down, she holds him out at arm's length, studying him raptly, hungrily. "You have cute dimples," she says, smiling.

His cheeks hurt from beaming.

X

The house in the middle of nowhere is home to Dr. Frank N. Stein, his pregnant wife Marie, and his goddaughter Maka. Together, the three make an unusual but infinitely loving family.

Stein used to teach an upper level biology course at Wes's undergraduate university. Halfway through the semester, Stein received the boot for 'filling the minds of ours students with filth'. Apparently, straying from the course syllabus to instead dissect live animals and rant about dreamscapes was enough to send the unfazed scientist packing. Wes had heard through the grapevine about the delusional professor and sought him out for advice about his own lucid dreaming abilities. The two have kept in communication for years since then.

Though Soul goes into another shock after learning about his brother's double life, he also is quietly thankful for the sequence of events. Tragedy has brought him together with Maka. The pair sit on the steps and watch tumbleweeds roll by, Maka bleeding her heart out:

"Stein and Papa were best friends. When Mama went to sleep and never woke up, Stein was the first one to try to help. But I guess it was too late." She twiddles her thumbs. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms - some might include indulging on sweets, but hers is distracting herself with touch. "Papa didn't listen to Stein when he told him not to go looking for Mama in the Dream World, but look what happened… after Papa didn't wake up, Stein took me in."

"I'm so sorry," Soul says. He is nothing but helpless.

"It's okay. Things change and people leave, whether they want to or not…"

Hugging seems like an appropriate response at this point in time, but Soul doesn't know how to initiate things like that. He's awkward about showing affection, shy about letting his feelings be known, and fearful of what others would do with the information. He's safe around Maka though, so he decides to take that chance. He gently glides his hand between hers; she looks at him with sorrow, and he gives her courage.

Wes barges out of the house and leaps over their joined hands.

A man with sallow skin who looks like he's seen too much leans against the doorframe, forehead pressed against the back of his hand. "Can't do anything about it, Wes. She's unreachable. Even if you went to the hospital where her body is, that's all you'll find… a body."

He's not being cruel. Honesty isn't pretty; the truth hurts. Wes scrunches his face like he's being pinched between closing walls. "It's bullshit, Stein!"

Soul gulps and watches his brother kick the Porsche's tire, fists balled. Maka squeezes Soul's hand, understanding his pain, sharing it. It's difficult to stand by and watch a loved one fall apart. But in her case, she had been coming apart like snow crumbling during an avalanche while also trying to save her papa.

Wes seems like he suddenly remembers he has to set an example for Soul. Forgetting his agony for a second, he straightens his posture like the gifted violinist he is, and snaps his head to catch Soul's gaze.

Stein seems to understand very well what goes through Wes's head. "Don't make any rash decisions," he says, and disappears into the house.

X

Soul's at war with himself: can he commit to his brotherly duties while also spending time with Maka?

It's almost as if he can only have one of them.

And he subconsciously made a choice.

An eerie calm had overcome Wes after the tire-kicking incident. He had unballed his fists, apologized for his outburst, thanked Stein and Marie for hosting the brothers overnight, and suggested that Soul borrow the car keys, that he and Maka have some fun.

"Have fun," he says, winking when Maka goes searching for her boots.

"It's not like that," Soul says automatically. The idea that his and Maka's relationship could be tarnished or made out to be anything but innocent love makes his stomach churn.

"Your crushes are obvious," Wes says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Soul should have known that something was terribly amiss when Wes lets go of the subject so easily, but in this moment Soul is looking forward to all the time he is promised with Maka. Soul pauses to say something, but nothing seems appropriate: _sorry your girlfriend died in your dreams? Sorry that we had to drive all the way out here for your professor to tell you there's nothing that can be done?_

Love is tricky to convey. It's one of those subjects that Soul is less than average at - he's actually afraid of showing affection. He's a volcano of emotions that has yet to erupt. So he salutes Wes and walks out the door where Maka is already ooh-ing at the car, never thinking to look back and make sure Wes will be okay.

X

"I want to drive," Maka says quickly when Soul pads over to her. The sky is dotted with millions of stars, pitch black, and cloudless. There is no breeze; the night is empty, the kind of emptiness that makes his heart rumble in his chest like a warning siren. "I have my license and everything. Want to see?"

She's already digging in her small satchel purse.

"Nah, I don't even have my permit anymore," Soul replies, tossing the keys over.

Her smile is wicked and beautiful. "Seat belt on, please."

X

It's almost as if Soul can only choose one of them: his brother Wes or his Dream Walker Maka.

But he also shouldn't have forgotten that he can't have nice things.

X

Cruising through the desert with Maka is a dream.

(Nightmares are dreams and dreams are nightmares.)

He undoes her pigtails so she can feel the wind run through her hair. It dances behind them as they zoom down the highway. Maka is a little speed demon, awfully fond of putting the pedal to the metal and testing the car's brakes. Soul is never sure of anything anymore. Is his heart threatening to burst out of his chest because of her presence, or is he afraid of her driving abilities? Is his stomach dropping because they could potentially slip off the road and land on their heads, or because she reaches across the console to hold his hand?

The headlights cut through the darkness like a scythe. For a moment he is convinced that he can get through any obstacles as long as he has sure-footed Maka beside him and his brother's support. The realization that he would be nothing without them hits hard; tears threaten to fall. He either feels nothing or feels too deeply - there is nothing in between.

Loneliness does things to a person; it kills dreams.

Tomorrow, a resigned, heartbroken Wes and a devastated Soul will make the two-day trip back to the east coast. Soul doesn't want to think about it more than needed. There is no way that he has found his Dream Walker in real life only to have spent less than an evening with her. It would be a tragedy to be separated from someone he loves so dearly.

Like always, he isn't sure what he's going to do, but he doesn't wish that he can fall asleep and never wake up anymore. Not when his dreams have become a reality.

Too bad he doesn't realize that dreams are nightmares and nightmares are dreams until it is too late.

X

Maka purposely drives off the road so that they can dance in the darkness.

She breaks the ice about Wes so quickly - she's not afraid of anything. Soul guesses that after the loss of her parents, she's fearless. "Your brother lost someone really important to him, didn't he?" It's more of a statement than a question. The realization that Maka has no clue why he and Wes rolled up in the Porsche hits him like a brick.

"Yeah, he's in bad shape," Soul sighs, trying not to think about her hand on his bicep, or the fact that they haven't stopped holding hands since they met. "I've never seen him like that before."

There is a beat of silence that couldn't be louder than a thunder clap. It's as if all the unsaid things are spilling out between them. "He lost his Dream World?"

"Uh… no. He lost his girlfriend in his Dream World."

" _Ooh,"_ Maka breathes, and he dips her. He likes to watch her hair move to their rhythm.

"Yeah…" He tilts his head to the left to look at her. She's deep in concentration, looking at him but not seeing anything.

"When you die in a dream you die in real life. You don't wake up," she finally says. She squeezes his hand as if seeking reassurance. "That's what happened to my parents."

Uneasiness is all that Soul feels. It's like he's keeping a deadly secret. Maka is his dream Walker, but he has yet to tell her anything about the little imp that is insistent on taking everyone out around him, one by one. It should be enough to worry him, to push him into action, but he's never been brave enough to face the truth. He's just an average, useless boy, a bottomless well of emotions.

Maka is still probing: "What exactly happened? I mean, if even Stein can't help, then it must have been really bad."

He coughs. She's one of those people that has to know all that she can. She's a knowledge seeker; that's how he knows he won't get away with changing the subject. He dips her again, hoping against all logic that her quizzical express fades. It doesn't. "This demon thing came by and uh, stabbed her and took her away."

She gasps, looking at him as if she's been struck by lightning. "What? What did it look like?"

A shrug is all the response he can manage; he realizes this attempt to play off the attack may seem a tad callous. Insensitivity to an event that took someone's life isn't cool at all. But if he doesn't act aloof about it, he fears he may crumble like a sandcastle. He briefly describes the imp as a shorty with too many pointy teeth in dire need of a dentist. "And he has this weird, creepy walk. Like his bones are broken or something."

Maka's face is illuminated by the full moon's glow. Soul wishes it weren't. Nothing but horror, doom, and death is written in the curves and valleys of her features. "That's bad," she says quietly, like she's afraid of being heard. "That's the demon of death. It's an omen."

Aloofness is the key to Soul's life. Worry not, fear not, think not, feel not. It's not a hundred percent foolproof. Right now, as an overwhelming urge to kiss her surges through every atom that constitutes his existence, he tries to mellow out as best as he can. Do not kiss the girl. Do not cry. Do not feel. Shh.

He doesn't tell her that he's seen the devilish imp in his dreams. It's like admitting that he's dying of a terminal disease. He's a goner, it seems, and he'd rather not spoil their time together, but they don't talk anymore after that moment. They spend hours dancing alone together to a tune in Soul's head. Waltzing in the desert with Maka Albarn is more fulfilling than dancing has ever been.

The magic of the moment does not yet die.

But nothing lives forever.

X

Day break sees them slow dancing, holding each other close.

"Soul…"

"Hmm?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to say your name… and you're a great dancer."

At last he's found something he's not average at.

x

Wes falls asleep and never wakes up.

Soul shouldn't be so surprised when he prods Wes to no avail. After all, Wes hadn't popped out from the house the instant they pulled into the driveway, simultaneously chiding them for staying out until sunrise and asking for details about their 'date.' Both of these are undoubtedly in his character. He is both a parent and a brother. So when this doesn't happen, Soul knows grief snatched Wes away from him.

The feeling of loss isn't as final as it should be. Soul should feel like he's lost his limb, lost his eyes, lost his hearing - but instead, resolve settles within him like fast-drying concrete.

A groggy Stein passes by the guest bedroom doorway, pauses, scans Wes with distantly sad eyes, and tells Soul he's welcomed to stay if he doesn't mind being cut open in his sleep. Stein lingers, scratching his chin thoughtfully, and shakes his head, mumbling, "He's just like Spirit, a lovesick fool. But if it were Marie…" He drifts away before finishing the thought.

Everyone in the room knows the answer. It's obvious that Stein would do the same.

Maka is the first to speak: "Are you going to be okay?"

Soul isn't one to tell a lie. "I'm not sure." He sucks in a breath, one of his last. "I'm going to find him," he says. "I'm going to fall asleep and get him back."

It's a death trap. Soul knows this like he knows the keys of a piano. It's a mission without a return guarantee, one that Maka signs up for without batting an eyelash. She is his Dream Walker, after all. "I'll go with you."

Soul is hypnotized by the fire in her eyes. No one ever told him bravery is contagious, or that love could give him strength. Who contaminates whom isn't his concern right now. Whether Maka's will to fight has given him the gall to attempt a rescue mission, or whether he's infected Maka with determination - it doesn't matter, they have traded in something important for someone who has already trespassed into territory that doesn't let people leave.

Having been awake with Maka for twelve hours helps in the decision to fall asleep. As Soul drags Wes's body to the edge of the bed to make room for himself and Maka, he mourns the loss of his brother and prays for the impossible. He doesn't remember his wish: to fall asleep and never wake up. All Soul can think of is how warm Wes is when he snuggles up beside him, curled into a ball, a hand on his forehead, as if asking for entrance to Wes's dreams.

Then the bed sinks underneath Maka's weight. She's a different kind of warmth. She presses up against Soul's back, so close, cheek stuck to his shoulder blade, a lithe arm rested over his side, holding him. He feels less alone and more alone all at once as they sync their breaths, falling asleep slowly, without knowing.

No goodbyes are said.

X

There is a floating hallway in the middle of black nothingness, hanging mid-air in the abyss. Only one door is ajar, the one with door knob that looks like it's been defiled by touch. Black fingerprints stain its smooth surface. It's a sign - they must go through the door in pursuit of whatever they're meant to find.

Where is the floor? It must be invisible, because neither Soul nor Maka slip into darkness. He reaches for her hand, and she meets him halfway, giving him a squeeze of reassurance. At this point, they're the walking dead. Soul wonders briefly if it's too late to turn around, to live his life with Maka instead of pointlessly sacrificing it. But Fate has decided that he can't have nice things, and that dreams are nightmares and nightmares are dreams.

Their mistake might have been letting the door close behind them as they stepped inside.

The gleaming city is no more. Towering, swaying trees have overcome the metallic grandeur of Genesis. Where there was once gleaming skyscrapers and cars packed onto streets is now a wild, eerie forest that breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out. There is little movement besides the occasional flutter of a falling leaf.

It's not right. Healthy, vivacious leaves don't fall in clumps. Deep down, Soul knows this is a sign of the end, but he still refuses to accept that Wes could be gone - that he had ventured where Stein told him not to, and become lost.

Still joined at the hand, Soul glances at Maka. "It wasn't anything like this just a few days ago… It kind of looks like the forest in my dreams, doesn't it?"

She nods. There isn't much to say. Soul wants to ask her if she's afraid, but then he realises that she's lost a lot too, and thinks she's brave for not falling asleep to look for her parents. Why hadn't she? He desperately wants to ask. Time is running out and he has so many questions for her. How did she find him in the first place? Why is this happening?

Maka doesn't cry. "Where would Wes have gone?"

He licks his lips. "To the scene of the crime… There was a carnival place," Soul explains to fill the silence. "That's where Blair d- uh, that's where it happened."

Maka points to the sky. "Was there a ferris wheel?"

Even though he looks at it, he can't remember. He shrugs. "I guess.

Nodding, she leads the way. "Let's go."

How can he say no to the fire in her eyes?

If navigating the city before it became overrun with greenery was a hefty task, it's insurmountable now. In addition to Soul's unfamiliarity with Genesis's terrain before its transformation, he can't make heads or tails of it what was once supposed to be - is that the bench where Wes took him to rest, or is that a tree stump? Hard to tell with the earth conquering it.

"Maka," Soul begins, nearly rolling his ankle when he doesn't realize they're stepping down a curb. "What does your dream city look like?"

"I don't have one," she says easily, as if it's not of importance. "I can only dream hop - like, I can go into other people's dreams, and I can have regular dreams, but since I'm not a lucid dreamer, I can't have my own world."

Soul frowns. "Then how come I can go into Wes's dreams?"

She's walking in front of him now, instructing him to watch out for a tree root that's popping out of the concrete. "That's a good question… probably because he invited you. Dreaming is complicated. I've read a lot of books about it, and all of them say different things."

He racks his brain for something to say. Tragedy strikes during silences. If there is no silence, maybe there won't be mayhem. This is probably the hardest he's tried to keep a conversation going under pressure. Though talking to Maka was never a difficult task prior to entering Genesis, the sense of looming catastrophe dulls their vigor to speak.

Sometimes it's better for there to be an ear-bleeding din, so as to soften the blow of a surprise attack. Hearing the pitter patter of unrhythmic footfalls is the catalyst of the downward spiral into Hell. Soul can tell without glancing over his shoulder that the rustling sound can be credited to the imp's messed up feet. In a panic, Soul seizes Maka's wrist, hauling her behind him as he makes a blind, unsteady, zig-zag-like dash through the trees.

Flashbacks of sprinting through his dream forest chill his skin. Was that a glimpse of what was to come, or is deja vu playing tricks on him again? Either possibility freezes his lungs. The heat of Maka's arm in his tightened palm is one of the sole reasons he hasn't collapsed. She's caught on to the danger following their heels. Soon she's pulled up beside Soul, just as his insides begin to burn from inhaling air too quickly.

"Don't look back," she pleads, shaking her head. Her bangs dance in the wind much like they did just a few hours before, when they were driving through the desert. "Don't look back, don't look back!"

cLAP CLap cCLap. cLap!

" _I know your naaaaame, and I want your soul,"_ it giggles. Soul knows it's gnawing on its knobby fingers. " _You're not a lucky lucky lucky ducky, not a lucky ducky."_

Soul wants to stop. His insides ache, his thighs are screaming; he's pushed his body to its limits. Giving up has always been a gift for him. But things are different now. A slim chance exists that he can do something to save Wes, and there's Maka to think about. If Soul dies in the Dream World, will Maka be able to return to her Godfamily? He's the link between them -

cLAP CLap cCLap. cLap!

 _claP cLaP clAp!_

When Soul begins to stumble over his own feet, Maka takes the lead, shouting words of encouragement. "We're almost there!"

A guttural, demonic moan rattles behind them. Maka cries and speeds up, refusing to glance back. Soul, however, does. The imp's head has enlarged to a gigantic, unrealistic size, bumpy. Blood drops from the small openings where the skin stretched too much. Drool runs down its chin like a river as it reaches for them, nails glinting in the lowlight -

And suddenly, with a 'pop pop _pop!'_ it's gone, along with everything but the abandoned entrance to the carnival area.

Maka buries her face in the crook of her elbow, heaving, struggling to breathe. Soul clutches his chest so his heart doesn't fall out, or something like that. He stares at her, wishing they never came into Genesis, wishing Wes never shared his dream with him. Cringing can't be helped - to see someone so strong burst at the seams with fear is excruciating.

"Was that the demon you saw? The one that took Blair away?" She sniffles, gulping back tears.

"Yeah," he confirms.

When she looks up, there is an inferno in her eyes, a certain will to not only live but _win_ shadowing the fresh tears pooling in her eyes. She would be a great warrior: looking danger right in the face and saying, "I'm going to make it, we're going to beat you!" nurtures the admiration he already has for her. He falls for her determination, falls for her fighting spirit.

She's the first to turn her heel, heading straight for the ferris wheel that seems to be the center point of the area. Masks litter the floor, and the stands are left forsaken, neon lights from the signs blinking intermittently, buzzing. Soul almost wishes the people would return so they wouldn't be so vulnerable out in the open.

Then he remembers the passerby who had a toothy, crazy grin and decides he would rather be alone.

Ahead of them, a tall figure stands with his back to them. The designer suit is recognizable anywhere to Soul. It was the one their mother gifted Wes as a reward for graduating top of his class from his masters in performance. Emotions shoot through Soul like pain.

"Wes!" Soul is running before he can think twince. "Fuck you, Wes, don't leave like that ever again!"

At the sound of his name, Wes turns to look at them. Confusion twists his face for a few seconds before realization settles. "Soul, you're here!"

Soul slows, his blood cold, cold, cold. Though the features and tone of voice is the same, there is something oddly wrong about Wes, something Soul can't quite place. The way he holds himself is different… Wes never slouched.

Maka, who has only come to know Wes through Soul's stories and the fleeting moments they were under Stein's roof at the same time, doesn't hesitant. "Wes! Are you okay?"

The gates of hell don't creak when they open. "I'm fine, but - it's your parents, Maka. They're here! When I was looking for Blair, I found them on the other side."

"The other side?" Maka echoes, softening like a marionette whose strings are being snipped away.

Wes points a calloused, slim finger to the other side of Genesis, where a mass of tall trees that Soul never noticed stand in waiting for them. "I found the place where people go when they fall asleep and never wake up. Stein said it was impossible, but he's full of shit - it's _right there!"_

The hope coloring Maka's face is beautiful, deceitfully so. It brings a healthy, pinkish glow to her cheeks, illuminates her hair as if she's put on a halo, and irons out the worry lines marring the skin between her brows. She lets go of Soul's hand in exchange for Wes's. "Really? Show me. Take me there."

Loneliness does things to a person.

A mad grin curls on Wes's lips. It's devilish, haunting, and dangerous, not at all like the handsome, genuine beam that earns him applause after a solo. "I will," he promises Maka. His teeth are strangely pointy. "Let's go right now."

Dreams are nightmares. Soul wants to wake up. Maka squeezes Wes's hand, grinning, beyond ecstatic that she's moments away from being reunited with her parents. Maybe it's the pessimist in him talking, maybe it's the dread boiling in the pit of his stomach and bubbling up his throat, but Soul is sure this is a one-way ticket to never waking up.

Fortunately for him, he's quick to doubt, to question, to disbelieve. "How do you know it's them?" he asks just as Wes is leading Maka away. This doesn't deter either of them from moving foward. Faint disappointment toward Maka simmers in Soul's fingertips, but he shakes it away - she's been a victim of grief twice too many times, of course she's allowed to hang on to hope.

But Wes (whoever this is, because Soul knows his brother, or he used to…) isn't allowed to take advantage of Maka's vulnerability. It's despicable, unforgivable. Now Soul is eagerly shouldering the burden of awakening Maka to the evil guiding her toward the unknown. Somehow he has to coax her away without prompting Not Wes's suspicions.

Thankfully, Soul is great at pretending. It's twisted that he's above average at that.

Dreams are nightmares. And nightmares are dreams. He's not lucky ( _not a lucky ducky)_ , not gifted. He's average. No wonder his plans disintegrate pitifully fast. Everything he says in an attempt to wake Maka falls on deaf ears. In no time, the trio are at the edge of the other side, the forest humming like a ventilator, deep and dark, and Maka luminous with the prospect of hugging her mama and papa once more.

Lies, all lies. Soul erupts and says so just as she's taking a step into the forest. She wears confusion well. "Huh?"

"He's lying to you, Maka. That's not even Wes. Don't go."

She looks between the two brothers, brows furrowing, dropping Wes's hand as his face distorts, the skin around his mouth decaying. His lips are no more. He's all razor-sharp teeth, uneven, iris-less eyes, and red, cracked skin. Maka screams from the depths of her soul while it hisses, "It's not all a lie. I collect souls. Pretty souls. Yours is pretty. I want it."

Dirty, blood-stained nails fly through the air, aimed at her throat, but she's as quick as she is intelligent. Ducking saves her life. So does the truth.

It feels like home to hold her hand, even if Soul and Maka rip through the city, half-sure they will make it through to the door, half-resigned to their fate.

cLAP CLap cCLap. cLap!

 _claP cLaP clAp!_

Sheer terror feeds his drive to continue running. They're past the ferris wheel in no time, the demon skipping behind them like it's a game, clapping, singing. Soul can't help but look back over his shoulder. "The saddest souls are the yummiest ones!" it shrieks, one eye rolling back.

They're at the edge of the city now, the door in sight. Soul's lungs want to pop, but Maka is his strength. The demon knows this, knows Soul like a master puppeteer.

It was a mistake to come here.

Soul realizes too late that dreams are nightmares, and nightmares are dreams. Wishes _do_ come true.

The end begins; he trips over a tree root. His hand slips out of Maka's and, as he reaches out bravely because he wants to feel the heat of her skin again, the world breaks.

It's catastrophic.

He's entranced by her hair blowing with the breeze, by the darkness in her eyes that seems to burn brighter the faster he moves. Is she desperate to make contact, to not lose him? The wind intensifies to gusts as he reaches for her, fingertips tingling. It ruffles through his hair, and he imagines his dandelion-like strands could be mistaken for a white towel whipping through the air, his neat part undone.

Maka only has eyes for him, though.

A train-like whistle screeches just behind him. "I guess I can only have one of youuuuuu. Gimme gimme your soul, your soul," the demon cackles triumphantly.

"Soul!" she yells right before his eardrums burst and shards of concrete and greenery are yanked out of the ground by tornadic winds, shielding her eyes and forehead with her arm, not looking away from him.

He reaches out for her, the small space between them a bittersweet curse.

Her grin is the only source of light in the darkening winds tearing them apart. He can't hear her, but he's learned to read her, too. She screeches so loudly it makes the winds seem like a whisper, "I don't want to lose you, too!"

Before he can breathe, the world swallows him.

X

On that day, Soul falls asleep and never wakes up.


End file.
